He did much of his writing in pubs, writing all his articles in long hand in little notebooks, and was often found at St George’s Tavern in Pimlico, where for years a photograph of him hung on the wall. Retracing some of his footsteps, I am currently typing this in The Pride of Pimlico—one of the pubs he frequented, designed by Darbourne and Darke and integrated into their Grade II-listed Lillington Gardens. His film on Pimlico’s two pioneering post-war schemes Churchill Gardens and Lillington Gardens, No Two the Same, available on BFI Player, is worth a watch. Funny, acerbic and poetic, he had a way with words I can only dream of as I sit here trying to drown out the locals effin' and jeffin' on the table next to me. The pub is still very much a locals establishment, which I think he would have appreciated. Although he saw himself as a man of the people and loved the hustle and bustle of Londoners from diverse backgrounds and incomes coming together, he was a shy man, and in his interviews, he looks awkward and wooden. He wasn’t a natural presenter, but it somehow makes him more endearing to watch.
Initially optimistic about the ‘brave new world’ of modern architecture, Nairn became increasingly disillusioned with planners and architects. In his BBC programme Nairn Across Britain, first broadcast in 1972, he revisits the towns he documented in Outrage and is visibly depressed and emotional at what he sees—buildings turned to rubble and replaced with bland, mediocre alternatives. By the late 1970s, he was writing less and less.
Jonathan Meades attempted to coax the now largely forgotten literary figure to write for Tatler in 1980. ‘It was like watching someone dissolve in front of your eyes,’ Meades said. ‘I’ve seldom seen a less healthy-looking person. His lunch was 14 pints of beer. He looked dropsical. It was as if his whole career had been a graph of disillusionment, and all that was left was an abyss‘.